


The Night Before

by picascribit



Series: The False Wand AU [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Sex, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Comfort Sex, Domestic Violence, Dumbledore's Army, F/M, Final Battle, First Kiss, First Time, Imprisonment, Infertility, Introspection, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marriage Proposal, One Night Stands, Past Character Death, Post - Order of the Phoenix, Pureblood Culture, Room of Requirement, Second War with Voldemort, Swordplay, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-02
Updated: 2007-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picascribit/pseuds/picascribit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1998: On the eve of the final battle, no one feels much like sleeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awkward

**Author's Note:**

> An AU diverging from canon after the end of _Order of the Phoenix_.
> 
> This story takes place between Chapters 11 and 12 of _[The Power of Two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/969147/chapters/1903131)_. It is not, strictly speaking, necessary to have read _The Power of Two_ to understand this, but it does provide some context for a few of the references.
> 
> Warning: This story has not been edited yet, and may contain unintended problematic elements and tropes.

There was a light in his room. Why was there a light in his room? He had only just managed to drift off, and now there was this light coming from -- 

"Whozzer?" he demanded groggily. 

" _Shhh_ , Ron. It's only me." 

His brain was still sleep-muddled. "Hermione?" It looked like she was carrying a candle. Why did she not just light her wand? He looked around the room, lit by the flickering golden glow. "What're you doing here? Where's Harry gone?" 

"I passed him on the stairs. I expect he's gone to see Ginny." 

Some part of his brain was slowly waking up. "Ginny? He can't do that! It's night time; she'll be wearing her -- y'know, nighttime stuff." 

Hermione smiled slightly at that. "Somehow, I doubt she will." 

Ron looked scandalised. "But she -- he -- they _can't_!" 

"I expect they can," Hermione replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed. 

It was a candle. She set it down next to the bed and turned toward him, the flickering light and shadow making her expression unreadable. 

"That's why I'm here." With no warning at all, she leaned forward and kissed him, her lips pressing hard against his. 

"Hermione!" he gasped, uncomprehending, struggling to push her away. "What in Merlin's name are you on about?!" Now that she was so close, he noticed the candlelight was reflecting off tears on her cheeks. "Are you all right?" 

"Yes. No." She drew back, shaking her head. "I just thought -- I mean, I want to -- Oh, this is so _stupid_! I'm an adult, and if I want to do something I should be able to _say_ it. Ron, I want to have sex, in case we die tomorrow." 

"With -- with each other?" The expression on his face was so comical that she would have laughed, given almost any other circumstances. "We can't! We're not married, and --" 

"And we never will be, if something happens to one of us tomorrow," she finished for him. "If we live, it's not like we can't get married later, if -- if you want to." 

It was all going much too fast. They had never even talked about any of this, much less -- "But what about your reputation?" he asked, desperate for an anchor of sanity to which he might cling. "People will think you're some sort of -- of scarlet woman." 

She snorted at that. "My reputation? My reputation with whom, exactly? Our friends? They'd understand. Our teachers? Ron, school's over. The Ministry? It's nothing to them. And do you really think the Death Eaters care if a Muggleborn girl is a virgin or not? The only people whose opinions about it matter are right here in this room." 

He glanced around, startled. 

"You and me, Ron," she said in tones of amused exasperation. "So what I'm saying to you is, I want to. And what I'm asking is, do you?" 

He hesitated, torn between his upbringing and what her nearness was doing to his body. "Er -- I guess so. I mean, if you really think it's okay." 

"Well that settles it," she said, reaching for the bedclothes. 

Ron started, pulling away from her. "What are you doing?" 

"Well, there's the notion that both of us have to be in the same bed for this to work," she replied, unable to suppress a tremor of nervous laughter. "And possibly undressed as well." 

"Oh. Er --" The dim candlelight hid his blush. Still he hesitated. "Hermione?" 

"What, Ron?" she asked patiently. 

"If we -- er -- don't die tomorrow, I mean, shouldn't we be worried about maybe --?" His voice trailed off in the darkness. 

"Oh." It was her turn to blush. "Don't worry about that. I've taken care of it." 

"How?" There was an edge of suspicion to his voice. 

"There's a potion for preventing pregnancy. Madam Pomfrey gives the formula to all the girls at Hogwarts. And you can wear this." 

He looked at the shiny square she was offering him in puzzlement. "What is it?" 

"It's a condom, Ron. It goes on your -- you know." 

"What?" he asked, baffled. 

"Oh, for God's sake, Ronald! It goes on your _penis_!" 

He looked startled for a moment, but warily took the strange object from her and held it up to the candlelight. Doing so, however, did not shed much light on its purpose. 

"What does it do? It looks uncomfortable. For you, I mean." 

"You have to unwrap it," she said, biting back a smile. "It keeps the semen from going in and joining up with the egg." 

"Semen?" 

"Do you need me to draw diagrams?" Her tone now verged on impatience. "You know where babies come from, right?" 

"Of course I do." His offended tone suggested that he did not see how this was relevant to the topic under discussion. "The man's potion goes in the woman's -- er -- cauldron, and they -- um -- stir it up, and a new life starts." 

Hermione could not decide whether to burst out laughing or give up and go back to bed. She stared at Ron in stunned amazement. 

"No! That's not -- it's because --" She shook her head. "Never mind. You just put this thing on, and there's no baby, okay?" 

"Okay," he replied uncertainly. "But -- er -- how do I --?" 

"Oh, give it here." She grabbed the foil-wrapped object from him and ripped back the bedclothes, reaching for the waistband of his pajamas. 

Ron threw himself backward against the wall, both hands clutched protectively over his crotch. 

She hesitated, then shook her head again. "I'm doing this all wrong." 

"How do you know?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. "You haven't -- have you?" 

She scowled at him. "I've just done some reading. I wanted to be sure I knew everything I'd need to know before trying it out." 

"You think this is something you can learn from _books_?" Ron asked in amazement. 

"Well, why not?" She was defiant now. "Where else am I supposed to learn about it? Not from you, Mr All-I-Know-About-Kissing-Is-You've-Got-To-Use-As-Much-Tongue-As-Possible." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, indignant. 

"Just that when you kiss someone, it should be less like choking on a live Flobberworm." 

"Oh, that's _it_! You think I don't know how to kiss?" 

Without warning, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. His lips were warm and soft, yet demanding against hers, and she unconsciously drew toward him. 

"How was that?" he asked a moment later. 

"Oh," she said breathlessly. "That was -- um -- better." But she still looked slightly troubled. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I was just wondering. Did you ever -- with Lavender?" 

"What? No! I -- we --" He made an inarticulate gesture down the front of his body. "There was, you know, stuff. But we never -- I didn't want -- Look, are we going to do this or not?" 

"I guess so." 

Hermione sounded slightly stunned at the idea that all of this might actually be leading somewhere. Fortifying her resolve, she grasped the hem of her nightgown and lifted it over her head. Ron moved to help her, tugging the garment away from her face. 

" _Ow!_ " she cried. "Hang on a minute. It's caught on my hair." 

He let go to allow her to sort out the troublesome garment, and suddenly realised that she was wearing nothing but candlelight. 

"Wow," he whistled. "You look -- really good." 

She blushed and smiled lopsidedly, tossing the nightgown away. "Thanks," she replied. "Your turn." 

"My turn? Oh." His hands went to the buttons of his pajama top, but a noise made him pause. 

Hermione froze as well. The noise came again, then again, and finally settled into a loud, rhythmic banging noise, accompanied by a piercing metallic squeak. 

"What --?" Hermione began. Then, "Oh." She cast her eyes to the floor beneath her bare feet. 

Ron's face had gone blank with shock. Hermione stifled a giggle and then began helpfully fumbling with his buttons. 

"They're not --" 

"Yes, I imagine they are," she said matter-of-factly. "Surely you don't intend to stay a virgin longer than your younger sister?" 

"You think she's --?" 

"Yes," she replied firmly. "She is. Was. Do you want me to help with the bottoms, too?" 

"What? Oh." He looked down his now-bare chest at the drawstring of his pajama bottoms. "No, I think I've got it." He tugged at the knotted laces for a moment, then shrugged and pulled them down over his hips and kicked them off into the darkness. "There." 

She looked pointedly at his maroon pants, and he blushed and shucked them off as well. 

"Oh, so you _do_ want to do this, after all?" she teased. 

"Well, I can't help it, can I?" he said, flustered. "It just does that." 

She gazed interestedly at the object in question. 

"It's rude to stare," he said stiffly. "You act like you've never seen one before." 

"Maybe I have and maybe I haven't," she replied, looking up into his face with a teasing grin. 

For a second he opened his mouth to ask, but then decided maybe he didn't want to know, after all. 

"Look," he said. "Are you going to show me how to put this concord thingy on or not?" 

She swallowed a nervous giggle. " _Condom_ ," she corrected. "And yes. At least, I think I know how it's done." 

She ripped the foil wrapper open. The thin latex film within glistened in the candlelight as she reached for the other half of the equation. 

" _Oi!_ " Ron cried, batting her hand away. 

"If we're going to do this, I kind of _have_ to touch you, you know," she reminded him. 

He looked sheepish. "I know. You just -- startled me." 

"Right. I'll give you fair warning this time, shall I? Ron, I am going to touch you penis now. Is that okay with you?" 

"Er -- yes?" 

"Fine." 

He sucked in his breath between his teeth when she laid hands on him, but the delicacy of her touch sent an unexpected shiver through him. He watched interestedly as she rolled the strange device into place. 

"There. That should do it." 

"What now?" he asked, eyes leaving his own now-protected anatomy to wander up her body to her face once more. 

"Well," she said uncertainly, "Now I guess we lie down." 

Lying beside her, it seemed natural to put an arm around her. As he did so, he felt her shiver. 

"Are you cold?" he asked. "Do you want to get under the covers?" 

"No. Yes. I'm not cold, but we could --" 

He pulled the blankets up over them, turning toward her as he did so. As their bare skins came together, he realised just how close and how naked they were. He could feel her soft skin pressed against him from chest to knee, and swallowed nervously. 

"Do you want to touch me, Ron?" she asked tentatively. 

"Yeah," he said, awkwardly putting a hand on her shoulder. 

She very gently took the hand and moved it to her breast. "I meant more like this." 

"Oh. Ah." Her flesh was soft and warm and pliant under his fingers. 

"And I'd very much like for you to kiss me again. Like you did before." 

"Sure." He bent his lips to hers, and for a long moment they stayed just like that, not moving. 

She pulled away at last, smiling at him shyly. "Are you ready?" 

Ron's heart was pounding. Hermione. Naked. In his bed. How many times had he imagined it? 

"Um. Yeah, I think so." 

She lay back against the pillow and parted her legs. He awkwardly rose to his hands and knees and moved over her. Suddenly he thought of something. 

"Isn't this going to hurt? You, I mean?" 

"Probably not," she replied, but her voice did not sound terribly certain. "The breaking of the hymen is largely a myth, from what I read. Only about forty-three percent of women bleed the first time they have sex." 

"Right. Okay." 

He was mildly unnerved by her ability to quote statistics under the circumstances, but he gamely lowered himself until their bodies were pressed together once more. He squeezed his eyes shut as if he were expecting it to hurt him as well as her, but in fact -- 

"Hermione, I don't think this is working." 

"Umm -- try a little bit to the left. No, _my_ left, Ron. Down a bit. Here; let me do it." 

Nerves lent an edge of exasperation to her voice. She plunged a hand between them and grasped his wayward anatomy by the root. He let out a most un-masculine squeak, and she loosened her grip slightly. 

"Sorry. Just there, okay?" 

"Yeah, okay." 

He thought he could feel where she meant, and his own nerves were suddenly banished by excitement and arousal. They were really going to do it. He thrust his hips downward, and this time it was her turn to squeak. He did it again. 

"Oh, _wow_ , Hermione," he gasped as she squirmed slightly beneath and around him. 

"Ron --" 

"It's bloody _amazing_!" 

"Ron --" 

"Should -- have done this -- ages ago," he panted. "Don't know -- what I was -- thinking." 

" _Ron!_ " 

"What?" He paused, brain catching up to her tone of voice. 

"Could you please just stop for a minute?" she asked breathlessly. 

"What? Why?" 

He found it difficult to focus on her words, and the bit of him that was doing all the thinking at present was telling him that stopping at this juncture in the proceedings was a terrible idea. He moved his hips experimentally, and she pushed him roughly away. 

"Take it _out_ , Ron! You're hurting me!" 

He collapsed on his side, mind reeling, trying hard to make his brain work. "I thought you said it wasn't going to hurt." 

"Well, I didn't know, did I?" she snapped, pushing back the sweaty bed sheets. "Oh, shit! I'm bleeding!" 

"Is there supposed to be that much blood?" he asked nervously, reaching out a hand toward her thigh. 

"I don't know, I don't _know_!" she cried, panicked. " _Don't touch me!_ " 

" _Umph!_ " 

This unorthodox response distracted her from her distress, and she looked around to find a squirming bundle of bedclothes, neatly knotted, where Ron had been. Quickly, she untied the knot and freed him, red-faced and gasping, from his suffocating prison. 

"I'm sorry," she said, voice trembling. "I panicked. I can't remember the last time I lost control of my magic." 

"It's okay," he gasped. "I think maybe we've had enough excitement for one night, though. Maybe we should try to get some sleep. Busy day tomorrow, yeah?" 

She nodded mutely and lay down again, staring at the ceiling. Side by side they lay, rigid as matchsticks in a box. The candle by the bed burned low and then went out altogether. 

"Ron?" Hermione said softly from the darkness beside him. "Do you love me?" 

He was silent for a moment. "Of course I do," he said at last. "Now get some sleep." 

"Oh. Good," she said. "Good night, Ron." 

He waited until he thought she was asleep to finish himself off as discreetly as he could manage. He was not sure if the magic of the condom would quit working if he took it off, so he left it on, just to be on the safe side. Sleep was a long time coming to him, and was intermittently interrupted by the frequent rhythmic pounding from the room below. 

_Well,_ he thought with a sigh, _no matter what happens tomorrow, at least I can be pretty sure it won't be nearly as awkward as tonight was._

The next time he awoke, Hermione was gone.


	2. Ready

She was hot, wet and tight, engulfing him in pure sensation. The heady scent of sex filled his nostrils, and her taste still lingered on his tongue. 

" _Harder_ , Harry," she urged between clenched teeth, her legs twining about his hips, fingernails digging into the firm flesh of his buttocks. 

He gave his body over entirely to her desire, thrusting as hard and fast as he could, their skins, slick with sweat, slapping together in time to the piercing, rhythmic squeak of the old brass bed frame. His glasses pressed awkwardly against her cheek as he bent to capture her mouth with his, and he was oddly excited by his own musky taste on her lips. 

He usually felt strange wearing his glasses when he wore nothing else, but this time -- the first time -- he wanted to be able to see her perfectly. The way the lithe, pale shapes of her body moved beneath him. The curve of her small breasts as they filled his hands. The exquisite delicacy and detail of that beautiful, secret place between her thighs. The flush of her freckled cheeks as she gasped his name when he first entered her. The sweaty tangle of her copper-silk hair. But most of all, her eyes -- dark, excited, brave, determined, beautiful -- locked with his own, hardly blinking, never looking away. He felt as bound to her by her eyes as by the slick, hot clutch of her around his cock. 

"You feel -- so good -- right there -- so good!" she gasped between thrusts, arching her back to take him into her as deeply as she could. "So -- good -- Harry -- _oh!_ " 

The last syllable was barely more than an intake of breath, but he felt it echo and reverberate throughout her body, her muscles clenching -- releasing -- clenching -- releasing, in an ancient, mystical rhythm which could not be denied. He gave himself to it joyfully, complying with the demands of her body, pouring himself into her in a spiral of sensation which left him not knowing where he ended and she began. 

As he slowly came back to himself, sweaty forehead pressed against hers, it seemed to him that he had touched something toward which he had been striving all his life. He felt at once sated and hungry for more. 

And then Ginny giggled. The vibrations of her body sent small aftershocks into his own through the point of their joining, as if they were two halves of the same creature. He raised his head to look at her. 

"What's so funny?" he asked with a shy half-smile. "Did I do it wrong?" 

She met his eyes and then laughed again. "No. It's nothing. Only -- I thought about it so many times. What it would be like to be with you. I thought I had imagined every possible aspect, but somehow I never considered the sound of your bollocks slapping against my arse." 

He snorted and rolled off her, the cool air of the room drying his sweaty skin. 

"So you've thought about this in a lot of detail, have you?" he asked. "Did I live up to your daydreams?" 

"Oh, most definitely." She sighed contentedly and stretched, arching her back. 

Harry watched this process with fascination, glorying in the idea that he could reach out his hand and touch her if he wished. He did so, tracing the curve of a lightly-freckled breast. She turned toward him, nestling her head against his shoulder. 

"I hope we'll get the chance to try out all of the things I imagined doing with you." 

He did not answer. He had not wanted to think about that tonight -- the fact that they might not get another chance like this -- that one or both of them might be dead by this time tomorrow. But he knew the thought was looming large in both their minds, and that it was what had impelled them to this place on this night, as they sought reassurance from one another, and took for themselves as much as they could of life's joys and the joy of each other while they were able. Part of the reason why this night was so exquisitely precious was that it might be all they would ever have. 

She shifted to look up at him. "I think it will be all right," she said softly. "The way Fred and George described the plan, I don't think we'll be in all that much danger." 

"Maybe not. But there's still a chance we'll lose people. If you or Ron or Hermione --" 

She sat up suddenly, laying her fingers against his lips to silence him. "Don't," she said. "Tomorrow will come. Let's not waste tonight mourning anyone prematurely." 

A floorboard creaked over their heads. Ginny and Harry cast their eyes toward the ceiling. 

"How do you think they're getting on?" Harry asked nervously. 

Ginny laughed softly. "You sound more nervous about them than you were about us." 

"They're my best friends," he said simply. "I want them to be happy." 

"They'll be fine," Ginny assured him, laying her head beside his once more. "Painfully awkward and embarrassed at first, knowing my brother, but fine." 

"If they have time to get to 'fine'," Harry could not stop himself saying darkly. 

"I don't want to talk about tomorrow," she said firmly. "I want to talk about _life_. Once we've won our glorious victory, what will we do with the rest of our lives?" 

"Well, I imagine you, Miss Weasley, will go on to your final year at Hogwarts, and make your parents proud with all the NEWTs you'll earn," said Harry, raising himself up on one elbow to look at her some more. "Technically, you shouldn't even be coming with us tomorrow. You're underage." 

She raised an eyebrow at that. "You're welcome to try and talk me out of it, Mr Potter," she said, casually parting her thighs to suggest exactly how he might go about persuading her. "But you didn't seem to notice my being underage a few minutes ago." 

He grinned and rolled his eyes. "Give me a minute to rest, and I'm sure I can come up with a -- er -- compelling argument." 

She grinned in return, and reached out to trace the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. He drew back in surprise. 

"Sorry," she said, still smiling a little shyly. "I just realised I'd never even thought to touch it." She giggled again. "Now I'll be famous too. I get to be the Girl Who Shagged the Boy Who Lived. There isn't a girl who went to Hogwarts with us -- bar a few Slytherins maybe -- who didn't want that on her CV." 

That surprised a laugh out of him. He captured her hand and kissed her fingers grinning against them. "My various scars are yours along with all the rest of me, Ginevra." 

"I like this one," she said softly, her fingers moving to touch a knotted scar on his arm. It was the one he had earned five years before, saving her from a basilisk and the memory of Tom Riddle. "Maybe you got the other one when you became the saviour of the Wizarding world, but you got this one as my champion. I've never forgotten." 

"I never asked to be anyone's saviour," he said, bending to kiss her softly on the mouth. "But I'm glad to be your champion. If you ever have need of one, that is. I've seen you with that crossbow; you don't need me to protect you." 

"Maybe not, but it's nice to know you're looking out for me." She kissed him in return. "Mmmm -- that's nice. How did you get to be so good at kissing?" 

"Natural talent, I guess." 

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow. "Because there were about a million girls at Hogwarts would would have lined up to give you lessons. But I never heard about you kissing any of them, apart from Cho." 

Harry blushed slightly. "That's because I didn't." 

"You've never even kissed any other girls apart from Cho and me?" Ginny said with an air of surprise. 

"Well, no, but --" Harry's blush deepened. 

"What?" said Ginny, suddenly sitting up to stare at him intently. "Did you and Cho do more than just kiss?" 

"What? No! This is the first time I ever --" 

"What, then?" There was curiosity and also suspicion in her voice. 

He had put his foot in it, and now it was too late, and he was going to have to tell her. How would she take it? 

"I -- er -- haven't kissed any other _girls_ , but --" 

"You kissed a _bloke_?!" She put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide with shock when he made no move to deny it. "Oh my God, Harry! It was Ron, wasn't it? I know how close you two are, but I never thought -- _shit!_ \-- now I've --" 

"No!" He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away from her mouth and squeezing it between both of his. He had to make her understand. "It wasn't Ron. It -- it was Neville." 

"Neville?" She looked at him blankly for a moment and then, amazingly, she began to laugh. 

Whatever reaction he had been expecting, this was not it. "What's so funny?" 

It was a moment before she could get the words out. "I kissed him, too," she giggled helplessly. "I can't believe we've snogged the same bloke! God, did you see his face when we left tonight? I thought he was looking at me, but --" 

Harry was nonplussed. "First of all, I didn't kiss him; he kissed me. Secondly, it wasn't a snog. It was just really quick. Like this." 

He bent to softly, briefly brush her lips with his own. When they parted, she had stopped laughing, and was looking at him thoughtfully. 

"Wow," she murmured. "Neville kissed you. I'm impressed. He was so nervous when he kissed me at the Yule Ball, and he kept apologising after. That's why I got fed up and ditched him for Michael. But -- he's really different now, isn't he?" 

"Yeah. He is. At least, he never apologised after." Harry was unsure what to make of her reaction. "It doesn't bother you? Him kissing me?" 

"No," she said, a wicked-eyed smile blooming on her face. "Did you like it?" 

"I -- I dunno," he said, surprised. "At the time, it seemed weird, but not in a bad way." 

"Did you ever wish he'd do it again?" 

That gave him pause. There had been moments -- rare moments in the two years since that night -- when he and Neville had found themselves alone. Harry had thought at those times that Neville might try again, but he never had. Once or twice, Harry had even lain awake at night, wondering what would happen if he ventured across the room for a late night visit. But how could he tell Ginny any of that? Could she ever understand the faint thrum of longing that underlay all else -- a longing he had long ago made his peace with, knowing that it could never be fulfilled? 

"I'm with you now," he said firmly, looking into her eyes. "Whatever I might have thought then, it doesn't matter now." 

She narrowed her eyes. "That's not what I asked, and you know it, Harry Potter." 

He shifted uncomfortably. What did she want? A signed confession? She did not seem disgusted, only keenly interested. 

"I don't know. Maybe a couple of times I thought --" 

"Would you do it again if I asked very nicely?" she purred, trailing her fingers up his thigh. 

His mouth fell open in shock. "You're joking." 

She smiled enigmatically, then rolled over to push him back against the pillows, swinging a leg over to straddle his hips. He felt himself stiffening again as her wet heat rubbed against him. When his fingers trailed down her body to find the center of her her desire, he felt exactly how slick and willing she was. 

"Damn," he moaned as he slid inside. "You're not joking, are you?" 

"No," she said, moving her hips. "I'm really not." 

Somehow, they missed the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and the front door closing quietly.


	3. Brave

Neville was alone. And he was praying. He was never sure to whom or what he prayed, since he had not had any kind of religious upbringing at all. Most of the time, he was not even sure what he was praying for. But when one is alone and confused and fearful, it can help to think that there is a Benevolence which understands what is going on and that no matter what happens, it is all part of some greater plan. 

Neville had spent a lot of his life alone and confused and fearful. His parents had been snatched away from him when he was was not yet two years old, leaving him nothing but their empty bodies and the screams which haunted his nightmares. His grandmother had never been very affectionate and was often quick to criticise the grandson she clearly felt was an inadequate replacement for her stricken son. 

Even at Hogwarts he had been alone. Surrounded by his peers, he had never had even one close friend in whom he could confide his hopes, dreams and fears. He had felt invisible. It was easy to be invisible when one shared a room with Harry Potter. 

He tugged back the curtains of the four-poster where he had slept for seven years to peer across the darkened dormitory at Harry's empty bed, remembering the night two years before when Harry had walked across the space between them to ask Neville about his parents. 

Harry had never made Neville feel invisible. From their first year when Harry had declared him to be worth twelve of Draco Malfoy to the battle of the Department of Mysteries, Harry had never treated him as less than anyone else. Harry made Neville feel grateful. And confused. 

Here he was on the eve of what might be the definitive battle against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and instead of fear and worry, Neville's mind was full of Harry. It always had been. He used to rationalise it -- hero-worship, admiration, friendship -- but not anymore. He would be facing death tomorrow and he could not lie to himself any longer. 

From that moment two years ago when his lips had touched Harry's for one brief instant, something had clicked into place inside him. He did not just admire famous, heroic Harry Potter. He _loved_ him. 

That was the confusing part, because he liked girls, too. He had been so pleased when Ginny had agreed to come to the Yule Ball with him in his fourth year after Hermione had turned him down, and he had enjoyed the one kiss they had shared. Awkward though it had been, it was his first, and he treasured it. 

Was it possible to like both girls _and_ boys? Neville had only ever heard of liking one or the other, and he knew his Gran's opinions on such things. He wondered what his Gran would think if she ever found out he had kissed another boy. What if the other boy was Harry Potter, whom she so clearly would have preferred to have as a grandson? Neville allowed himself a tiny smile at the thought of that opinionated old woman, for once struck speechless. 

The smile faded as he remembered Harry leaving with Ginny after the gathering. 

Everyone had been pale and subdued, and no one had spoken more than a few murmured words following the horrific death of Professor Snape. Dumbledore had grimly informed them to go get some rest, that they would reconvene the following morning, and that beds would be provided for those who wished to remain at the school overnight. 

Neville had hoped that Harry and his fellow Gryffindors might stay -- that he might not have to face tonight alone -- but he had heard Mrs Weasley say that it was a night for the family to be together. Her statement clearly included Hermione holding Ron's hand, and Harry with his arm around Ginny. He had laid a hand on Neville's shoulder in passing, but had spoken not a word. Dean and Seamus had not stayed either. 

Neville rolled over on his stomach and stared moodily at his headboard, where some previous occupant has scratched the letters "RL + SB". He tried to feel happy for Harry and Ginny, but all he could think was that if he died tomorrow no one would ever scratch his initials like that. With Ron and Hermione, Harry and Ginny all wrapped up in one another -- and he had no illusions about what this night likely held for them -- he thought it was entirely possible that no one gave so much as a passing thought to Neville Longbottom. 

But he had no room for bitterness tonight. These were people he cared for, and if they were not thinking of him, well, he would think of them instead. Wonderful heroic Harry, loyal Ron, thoughtful Hermione, strong Ginny, stubborn Seamus, easy-going Dean, the irreverent twins, otherworldly Luna, wise Dumbledore, kindly Lupin .... 

Remus Lupin had stayed, he remembered. Neville had watched everyone else leave the Great Hall in twos and threes, seeking comfort in numbers and drawing strength from the presence of friends and lovers. But Lupin had stood staring at the body of Severus Snape still tied to its chair. Neville had seen him reach down at last to touch a blackened hand. "Go in peace," he had heard Lupin say softly. 

Lupin, along with a few other members of the Order, had been staying at the school for several days now. Neville was even fairly certain he knew which room the former professor occupied. Lupin had always been kind to Neville. He had known Neville's parents, and he and Harry were close. He would be alone tonight. Perhaps he would offer Neville a little company and a kind and sympathetic ear. 

Decision made, Neville slipped out of the silent dormitory and padded down to the common room in his bare feet, out through the portrait of the Fat Lady and through the dark and echoing corridors of Hogwarts. Reaching the door he sought, he crossed his fingers, held his breath and knocked. 

A minute later he was trying to decide whether to knock again or give up and go back to bed when the door opened a few inches, revealing the disheveled countenance and bare shoulder of Remus Lupin. He smelled strongly of firewhiskey and something else that Neville could not quite name. 

"Oh, good evening, Neville," he said, not impolitely. "Do you need something?" 

"I'm s-sorry," Neville stammered. "I didn't mean to wake you. I just -- wanted someone to talk to." 

For a moment, Lupin looked torn. "I'm sorry, Neville," he said at last, with sympathy. "I wish I could, but now really isn't a good time." 

"Oh," replied Neville as realisation dawned. "I didn't mean to -- I'll just let you get back -- I mean, goodnight, Professor." 

He turned and walked away quickly. The door clicked shut behind him. 

_Even Lupin has someone tonight,_ he thought gloomily. He wondered vaguely who it was. Probably someone from the Order, he guessed. There had been rumours that the Auror Tonks was interested in him. Maybe it was her. But then he remembered that the Aurors were already in position for tomorrow. _Then who --?_

The walk back up to Gryffindor tower seemed longer than usual, and the silence of the corridors was eerie. It did not feel as though the castle was sleeping; more like it was waiting for what the morning would bring. 

When he reached his dormitory once more, he did not go to his own bed, but lay down on Harry's instead. Neville pulled the covers up over himself and laid his head against the pillow, breathing deeply to see if he could catch the lingering scent of the boy who had slept there for seven years. 

There was no one left for him to talk to. Instead, Neville tried to imagine that Harry was there beside him -- tried to conjure the words of encouragement Harry might offer to calm his fears and worries -- but Harry would not be summoned so easily. 

He wondered if he would survive tomorrow's confrontation. The way the twins and Dumbledore had explained the plan, it did not sounds as if they expected many casualties. Perhaps everyone would be all right. But what if they were wrong? 

If he died tomorrow, he would never finish reading the book Professor Sprout had written. He would never learn how to swim. He would never get to visit a tropical rain forest. He would never write that comparative study of wand woods like he had always wanted to. He would never hear someone say they loved him. He would never tell Harry how he felt. 

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away angrily. What was the point in dwelling on all the things he might never do? What about all the things he had done? 

He had single-handedly fought Crabbe and Goyle in his first year. Lost, but still fought. He had once earned the house points that had put Gryffindor over the top for the House Cup. He had been one professor's star pupil. He had achieved an Outstanding in Herbology and Exceeds Expectations in both Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts. He had been a member of Dumbledore's Army and a credit to Harry, his teacher. He had faced his fears in open battle at the Department of Mysteries and he had not fallen to his enemies. He had kissed Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter. 

_If I fall tomorrow,_ he decided, _that's all right. I've done things. Maybe a few people will even remember me. And if I live, all the better. I'll do more things and I'll make sure the people who matter most never forget me._


	4. Lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding an extra warning on this chapter because it's the one I get the most pushback for from my readers. Let me state for the record that, at this point in the story, however they may feel about one another, Ron and Hermione are *not* in a committed relationship, nor, in fact, in any formally declared kind of relationship, and what Hermione decides to do with her body is no one's business but her own.

It was always a gamble. Sometimes the drink kept the ghosts at bay, but at other times they clustered close about him, filling him with memory, regret, and crushing sorrow. Tonight was one of those nights. 

They haunted him, populating his mind. James and Lily, gone these many years. Sirius, whose death was still a raw wound on his heart. And tonight they were joined by new shadows. Severus Snape smirked at him, lurking in a gloomy corner of his mind, and behind him, the pale face of Sirius's brother Regulus. 

That had been a shock, but the diary left little room for doubt. Remus had taken it from the blackened hand of Severus's corpse, and had spent the last few hours exploring a life to which he had barely given a thought to before tonight. 

Regulus had loved Severus, beyond doubt, beyond reason. And it was clear from the fact that Severus had kept the little book by him all this time that the feelings Regulus had confessed therein were not unreturned. 

"You win," Remus said to the lurking Presence with grim humour. "You had the most tragic romance." 

Lily and James had had two years of happiness -- enough time in which to marry and have a child. In death, they had become celebrated heroes. Their son had somehow defeated Voldemort as an infant, and might just manage to do so again tomorrow. None could argue that their lives had been wasted. 

Remus and Sirius had had five years from the beginning of their own romance until tragedy had torn them asunder. And then, miraculously, they had been given two unexpected years together. They had had the privilege of seeing the young man Harry had become. Sirius had cleared his name and died a hero. 

Regulus and Severus -- what had they had? Any joy had existed in secret, stolen moments, and had been cut short by Regulus's death at the age of barely eighteen. Whether Severus's own death would remove the tarnish from his blackened reputation remained to be seen, but he surely deserved it. Voldemort had killed Regulus, and the only other love Severus had known -- Lily Potter nee Evans -- and Severus had spent nearly twenty years exacting slow, subtle vengeance. He had earned his rest a hundred times over. 

_We were the lucky ones, as it turns out, Sirius and I._ Remus laughed bitterly. _Who would have thought?_

He rested his forehead against the rough wooden surface of the table as the room spun around him, the figures in his mind swaying sickeningly. He could not remember how much he had had to drink. He should try to get some sleep before morning came. But the spectres of his past would not depart. 

"Go away," he mumbled. "Leave me be." 

When the knock came at his door a moment later, he considered repeating himself, but the company of a living person might help to dispel the shadows from his mind. He hoped it was not Tonks; he did not think he could deal with another tearful, pleading confession of love in his current state. No, Tonks would be stationed with the other Aurors, already awaiting the morning. 

"Who's there?" he called, squinting blearily toward the door. 

By the time the door frame came properly into focus, Hermione Granger was standing in it, looking uncertain. 

"Hermione? I thought you were at the Burrow?" 

"I was," she said, twisting her fingers together. "But -- may I come in? I sort of hoped -- I need someone to talk to." 

He waved a hand toward a second chair before carefully pouring another measure of firewhiskey and pushing it across the table to her. 

"Drink up," he suggested. "You look like you need it." 

"You're not having any more, Professor?" she asked, gingerly taking the glass from him. 

He shook his head. "I've had more than enough already. And I haven't been your professor for a long time. You can call me Remus, you know. Everyone else does." 

For a long moment, she stared into the glass, saying nothing. Then she burst into tears. 

"Hermione!" He moved around the table to put an arm around her, patting her comfortingly on the back. "Hush, now. Don't worry about tomorrow. You've heard the plan. Everything should be fine." 

She shook her head through a couple of gasping sobs before she was able to speak. "It's -- not that -- Prof -- Remus," she managed at last. "It's -- it's Ron. Ron and me. I -- we were -- well, we could _die_ tomorrow, couldn't we? I just -- wanted to --" 

"I understand," Remus said gently. "It's all right. Did he not want --?" 

"No," she sniffed. "He did. But then when we --" She pressed her lips together, unable to say the words. "It was so _awful_. I wanted it to be good. I did all kinds of research --" 

Remus suppressed a laugh and pulled his chair around beside hers to sit down again. "It's silly to think you know what you're doing the first time," he told her. Taking both her hands in his, he wrapped them firmly around the glass of firewhiskey. "Drink up. You'll feel better." 

This time she did not hesitate, but drained the glass in a single swallow. She made a face. 

"I didn't know who I could talk to. And I couldn't bear the thought of how awkward it would be, us waking up together in the morning." 

"What about Ginny? Not that I'm not pleased to have company, but surely another girl --" 

She laughed. "No. She's -- busy. With Harry. I didn't want to interrupt." 

"And so you came to _me_ for advice?" He laughed aloud at that. 

She scowled at him. "We're all _people_ ; the theory should be the same, regardless of -- Anyway, it _is_ a man I want to do it with." 

"You're right and you're wrong," he admonished, suppressing a chuckle at her assessment. "Yes, people are people. But your approach is wrong. You're treating it like a problem you need to solve." 

He poured her another drink, which she dealt with as swiftly as the first. 

"What you said about the theory being the same --" he continued "-- you can't treat it like that. There's no theory or equation or predictive model that you can apply to love, and always come up with the right answer. It's just about two people and the things they need." 

She sniffed again and nodded, reaching to pour herself another drink. She sipped it slowly this time, regarding him over the rim of the glass. 

"It's just -- well, I want it to be _good_ ," she confessed. "I guess I mean I want to be good at it. But I don't know what I'm doing, do I? I don't even know if I _like_ it. I mean, I know I like Ron. I l-love him. But, well, _sex_." 

She tossed back the rest of her drink, abruptly slamming the glass down on the table. 

"If I could just _know_!" she burst out. "If I could just try it with someone more experienced than, well, _Ron_. Then I would know if I like it or not, and at least I wouldn't have to worry about _that_ , on top whether I'm doing everything wrong!" 

He was torn between laughter and sympathy until he caught the look she cast him as she poured a fourth drink. It was a speculative look, and it made him decidedly uneasy. 

"Maybe you should slow down with the firewhiskey," he suggested cautiously. 

She settled back in her chair, cradling the glass between her hands, eyes fixed on his. 

"You were one of our best teachers," she said slowly. "I always liked you. Maybe you could tell me what I'm doing wrong." 

"Tell you?" he asked warily. "Or show you?" 

She set down the glass and leaned toward him earnestly, face intent. "Professor Lupin -- Remus. I know I'm not exactly your type. I realised that when we were staying at Grimmauld Place -- how it was with you and Sirius -- I'm not blind to the obvious like Harry and Ron, you know." 

He looked away from her and considered refilling his glass despite the fact that he almost never drank with company. 

"Well, that was --" he cleared his throat. "We went back a long way, me and Sirius. I don't expect you'd understand what that's --" 

"I'm eighteen years old, Remus; I'm not a child," she said sharply. "I know you and Sirius were lovers." 

"And I am more than twice your age, Miss Granger," he replied, matching her tone. "And as you have so keenly observed, gay as a maypole." 

"You're not _old_ , though," she said. "And as for the rest, it just means you're no threat to me and Ron." 

She was very close. He could smell the firewhiskey on her breath. 

"I know I'm not him -- not Sirius --" she was saying, "-- and you're not Ron. But at least we wouldn't have to be alone tonight." 

He drew back slightly. "What you're suggesting -- you said you wanted someone with experience," he reminded her. "Mine hasn't exactly been with women." 

"People are people," Hermione repeated dismissively. "I bet you know a lot about how to kiss and how to touch so it feels nice." 

He found he was staring at her mouth. That full, wide lower lip was the only feature she shared in common with his dead lover. And yet she shared it. He knew exactly how the sweet curve of it would feel sliding over his -- 

He shook himself. She was half his age, not to mention female. What was the matter with him? But he knew the answer to that perfectly well. The full moon was only days away. Liquor and the wolf rising within him were always a dangerous combination. He was not a reckless man by nature, but he had his moments, and they usually started something like this. 

What if they did die tomorrow? Did it matter, in that case, if they took a little comfort in one another? That was all she had come to him for, after all. Ultimately, it was Ron she wanted, not him. Unlike Tonks, it was within his power to give this girl the thing she wanted from him. 

_What the hell?_ he thought, mentally shrugging off his reservations. _I could use a little comfort, too. Someone warm to be close to tonight. We can't hurt one another; I haven't got what she needs any more than she has what I need._

She saw the decision in his eyes, and he saw her resolve waver for an instant before he kissed her. 

He had been wrong about her mouth. It felt a little like Sirius's, and he had certainly tasted firewhiskey on those lips a hundred times or more, but Sirius had never kissed so hesitantly, not even the first time. Sirius's lips had always tasted of certainty. 

"The first lesson," he said softly, breaking their kiss, "and the most important, is that you have to relax to enjoy it. Don't think; just feel." 

He kissed her again, running a hand down her back. He felt the tension leave her body as her lips parted before his gentle assault. 

"You see?" he said a moment later. "That was better, wasn't it?" 

She nodded once, looking slightly stunned. 

"The second lesson," he continued, rising from his chair and shrugging of of his outer robes, "is that unless you are sleeping with a powerful Legilimens, you must say what you want in order to get it." He held out a hand to her. "Will you come to bed with me, Hermione?" 

Eye wide, she rose, awkwardly shrugging off her own robes. He saw that she was wearing only a thin nightgown underneath, and noticed a red stain near the hem. He realised that his sensitive werewolf nose had picked up the scent of blood on her, along with her fear and natural feminine scent and -- Ron. He could smell the traces of Ron's desire on her, heady and masculine, and felt the first stirrings of arousal uncurl inside him. 

Taking her hand, he led her to the unmade bed and sat down beside her. He watched her covertly as he unbuttoned his shirt and shucked off his trousers and pants, seeing that her hands trembled as she drew the nightgown up her slender body and over her head. 

She was slim of hip and small of breast, but there was no mistaking her for anything other than what she was: a woman in the flower of her youth -- everything a man was supposed to desire. But not him. 

She, on the other hand, was staring at his body in round-eyed wonder. Raising a hand, she traced the curve of a scar. 

"Does it bother you?" he asked, suddenly hesitant. It was over twenty years since he had felt so self-conscious of his body. 

"No," she said softly. "I mean -- it does, but not -- Does it bother you?" She looked up into his eyes. 

"Not for a long time," he said, taking her hand and laying if flat against the scripted "S" over his heart. "They're part of who I am. Lesson three, by the way, is 'never criticise a naked man'." 

She giggled nervously, and he let go her hand, leaning to grab his wand from the nightstand. 

"Do you mind if I --?" he inquired, pointing the wand between his legs. "Only, I don't think I'll be much good to you otherwise." 

She blushed. "No. I mean, if you need to --" 

" _Priapus_." Golden sparks prickled against his skin, and a sensation that was not quite arousal stole over him. It was odd, but not unpleasant, and it did the trick. 

Hermione licked her lips nervously, then seemed to realise she was staring, and blushed still more deeply. 

"You understand it's only tonight?" he reminded her. "I can give you this, but nothing more." 

"I understand." 

He hesitated a moment. "Are you -- er -- protected?" 

She looked away, embarrassed. "I took a potion." 

"All right. I just hope to God your potion-brewing skills are better than mine." 

That got a smile out of her. "They are," she assured him. 

"Right," he said. "That's the last thinking I want you to do tonight. Understood? You can tell me to stop any time, but from now on, you follow my directions." 

"I understand," she said again. 

"Good. Come lie down beside me." 

She did as he bade her, but seemed reluctant to allow too much contact between them. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her body close against his, and kissing her soundly once more. Her skin felt good; warm and soft, and her mouth opened under his. But even when he closed his eyes, he could not ignore what she was. Still, he had always been fond of Hermione, and she deserved the best he could give her. 

"Touch me," he said softly. "Explore my body. Learn my reactions." 

Her touch was light and quick -- almost ticklish. She traced his scars and the shadowed curves of his bones and the muscles of his shoulders. It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him, and it felt good. Her hands were smaller and softer than the ones he remembered, but as they moved lower, he found himself responding to her touch more than might be warranted by the spell alone. 

When the tip of her finger brushed against his cock, he gasped and pressed against her hand. She drew back as if burned. Opening his eyes, he found her staring at him, hands clasped to her breast. 

"No, that was good," he said hoarsely. "It feels good, having you touch me. Do you want me to touch you?" 

"Yes," she whispered, eyes falling to his hands. 

"Look at me, Hermione," he said, lifting her chin with a finger. "You told him what to do, didn't you? Try saying what you want instead. There's a difference." 

The molten gold of his eye held her. Slowly, she let her hands fall away from her bosom. "I want -- I want you to touch me, Remus. Please." 

Holding her gaze, he let the finger beneath her chin brush gently down the length of her throat, following the sweeping line of her collarbone before tracing around the curve of her breast. Her eyes fluttered closed. 

"Like that?" he asked, a hint of amusement on the edge of his voice. 

"Oh, yes," she sighed. "That's nice." 

"And this?" He placed the tips of all five fingers below her breasts and drew them slowly downward over the sensitive skin of her belly until they rested against the nest of curls between her thighs. "Do you want me to touch you here?" 

She nodded wordlessly. 

"Open your legs." 

He felt a tremor run through her, but she obeyed. He did not move his hand as he spoke, letting her lie for a moment, open to him, waiting. 

"If he's nervous and doesn't get it right the first time, be patient with him. Tell him what he can do differently, not what he's doing wrong." 

Slowly, he let his fingers drift downward, stroking the outer petals of her feminine mysteries. 

"You have to trust him to be guided by your reactions. Do you trust me, Hermione?" 

"Yes," she gasped. "I t-trust you, Remus." 

"Okay. Now, you're going to have to help me here. I've never done this before." He drew one fingertip up her moist, pink slit, eliciting another gasp. "Show me how you touch yourself, Hermione. How better for a man to learn how you like to be touched?" 

Eyes still closed, she drew her knees up slightly, letting her hand fall between her thighs, brushing his aside. He watched as she found that exquisitely sensitive nub and began to stroke it in tiny, rhythmic circles. Every now and then, her fingers would glide down and dip inside her for a moment, stroking in and out to the same rhythm. 

Remus found it vaguely mesmerising. When her breathing began to come in gasps, he laid his fingertips against the back of her hand. 

"Show me," he said. "Show me how." 

She took his fingers in hers and rested them against her, moving them in the same rhythmic circles, not pressing, but gliding over the slickness of her flesh. After a moment, her hand fell away and she arched her back, moving her hips against his fingers. 

"Mmmm -- that's good," she sighed. "I think --" 

"No thinking," he reminded her. 

"It _feels_ \--" she amended "-- better when you do it than when I do." 

"Good," he said approvingly. "It's good to say how it feels. Offer him encouragement. Make him understand what you want. What do you want, Hermione?" 

"I want you to -- to put your f-fingers inside me," she breathed. "Please." 

"Like this?" Keeping up the rhythm with one hand, he brought the other to her entrance and carefully slid one finger inside her. 

" _Oh!_ " she moaned. "Oh, that's good." 

He could feel her body pulsing, hot and tight around him. It was an incredibly odd sensation, especially since he felt completely detached from what he was doing. There was no passion here, and no attraction; only the closeness of two bodies. He watched with an almost scientific curiosity as his finger slid inside her and she squirmed against his hand. 

He licked his lips. "Do you want me to taste you?" he asked, unsure what he hoped her answer would be. 

Her eyes opened at that. "Oh, but -- you don't want --?" 

"What I want is immaterial," he reminded her. "This is about you learning to say what you want." 

"Oh. Well then, yes. I -- um -- I think I would. If you don't mind." 

"Thinking again," he admonished. "You know that's not allowed." 

She managed a tiny smile. "I want you to taste me, please, Remus." 

He returned the smile. "See? That wasn't so hard." 

Settling himself between her thighs, he inhaled her heady, feminine scent. It was not bad, he decided; just not what he wanted. He rested a hand on her thigh, and continuing to stroke her inside with the other, bent his head to his work. She tasted strange and slightly salty in a way that he was not entirely sure he liked. But she seemed to enjoy it, if the whimpering coming from the pillows was any indication. 

"Please, Remus," she cried a moment later. "Please, I need more!" 

"Tell me what you need," he said, raising his head. 

"I need -- please -- I need your fingers -- inside --" 

"You mean like this?" he asked, slowly sliding a second finger into her tight passage. 

Her only answer was to lay a hand on his head, pulling his mouth back down to her. 

As his tongue explored her secret places, her cries became louder, more urgent, until with a shrill scream, she arched her back sharply, thrusting her hips hard against his hand. He could feel her muscles squeezing in steady rhythm around his fingers in a way he had not expected at all. 

When she lay still and limp at last, he cautiously withdrew his fingers from her and looked up to see her covering her face with her hands. 

"Hermione? Are you okay?" 

"Oh, God!" she moaned. "That was so _embarrassing_! I can't do that in front of Ron!" 

He eased himself up beside her, and took her into his arms, kissing her on the forehead. "Trust me," he said. "If you do that for him, he will think you're the most beautiful thing in the world." 

She peeked at him from between her fingers. "Really?" 

"Really. I always did when --" 

"Sirius," she said with soft understanding. Then the look of determination was back in her eyes. "Teach me," she said. "Teach me the things he did for you. I want to learn something that you like. And -- and Ron will like it, too. Won't he?" 

Remus was touched by her obvious desire to prove herself, and to give something back to her teacher. 

"All right," he said. "We'll start where we stated before, with touching. Don't be afraid of my reactions. If I need something different from what you're doing, I'll tell you." 

More boldly now, she raised her hands to run through his graying hair, to stroke his cheek, caress his neck, glide over his shoulders and down the much-scarred expanse of his chest, skim feather-light along his sides, circle his waist, cup his buttocks, and -- and she was kissing him. He had not expected it -- had not even realised his eyes were closed -- until her lips met his. 

He felt her fingers run up his thighs, and whisper across his lower belly, making him shiver. A slight hesitation, and her hand wrapped around him, slowly and tentatively stroking the length of his cock. He wrapped his fingers around hers and showed her to squeeze tighter, helping her find the rhythm he needed. 

She broke their kiss to look down and see what her hand was doing. 

"Do you like it?" she asked nervously. "Am I doing it right?" 

"That's -- that's good," he told her, struggling for composure. "And taking the initiative like that is good, too. Shows a man you -- you want what he's got." 

"What should I do now?" she asked. 

He took a steadying breath. "Would you -- would you use your mouth on me?" 

A smile touched the corner of her mouth, and she moved down the bed to position herself between his thighs, without hesitation engulfing the head of his cock. 

" _Christ!_ " he gasped as her tongue moved along the underside and he was catapulted backward in time to a different bed and a different teenager with coal-black hair lying between his splayed thighs. "Where did you learn how to do that?!" 

She raised her head and gave him a grin, half sheepish and half smug. "This, I've done before. With Viktor. It was only a couple of times, and he seemed to forget how to speak English when we got to this part, so he wasn't very instructive. Am I doing all right?" 

"Er -- yes," he said, somewhat disconcerted. "You're doing very well, in fact." 

"I thought maybe." 

She bent to her work once more, and he let his head fall back on the pillow. If he closed his eyes and did not inhale through his nose, he could almost pretend that -- 

_No._ He shook himself sharply. He was meant to be helping Hermione. Drifting off into fantasy was not on the menu. 

"Hermione?" he gasped through gritted teeth. 

"Hmmm?" she murmured, not stopping what she was doing. 

"Do you want me to come in your mouth?" 

That gave her pause. She released him with a _pop_. 

"What? Er -- I don't know --" she said, disconcerted. 

"Well, if you don't, you'd better stop now; I'm about five seconds from it." 

"Okay," she replied, eyeing his cock nervously as if it might do something unexpected. "What do you want me to do? Oh!" A blush suffused her cheeks. "You don't want to -- um --" She glanced over her shoulder at the smooth, pale curve of her buttocks. 

"Not if you don't want to," he assured her. 

"Er -- I don't think I'm quite ready for that." 

"And you're thinking again," he reminded her with a smile. "What did we say about that?" 

"Not allowed." She bit her lip and stared speculatively at his swollen anatomy. 

"What do you want to do about it, Hermione?" he asked gently. 

She glanced up at him shyly. "You could -- um -- put it inside me. At least, I think you could. It looks bigger than Ron's, though." 

He laughed at that. "Well, don't tell Ron that, all right?" 

She grimaced. "Don't worry; if we do end up getting together, he's _never_ going to hear about this." 

"Probably for the best," he replied. "And I promise I'll be gentle with you." 

He laid her back against the pillows, kissing her, and ran his hands over her body, gently teasing her thighs apart with his knee. Reaching a hand down between them, he found that she was still wet from his last assault. He found her sensitive spot and began making slow circles again, wanting to make her as ready as possible, hoping to spare her any pain. 

"You tell me when you're ready, all right?" he said softly between kisses. 

She nodded and let the breath she was holding out in a long sigh, but he could still feel tense expectation in her body. 

"Relax," he whispered, face close to hers, a hand resting against her cheek. "Don't get so wrapped up in the mechanics that you forget to enjoy yourself. This is sensual, not intellectual. Trust in your body; it knows what it wants -- what it needs. Now, are you with me?" 

She nodded nervously. 

He smiled. "Remember how you liked it when my fingers were in you? How you wanted more?" 

She nodded, and he slid a finger inside her again, making her gasp. 

"You'll know when you're ready," he told her. "Don't rush yourself." 

"Do you -- do you want to be inside me?" 

"I do," he assured her. "I think you'll feel good around me." 

She closed her eyes, moaning softly and pressing against his hand. "Okay. I -- I'm ready." 

He could feel his heart beating rather faster than he had expected. "All right," he said. "I'll go slow, and you can tell me to stop if you need to." 

He rose up on his hands and knees, positioning himself over her. Taking her hand, he wrapped it around his cock. "Guide me," he said. 

He could feel the wet heat of her as she pressed him against her slick entrance. 

"Just there," she whispered, moving her hips against him. 

Slowly, he pushed into her, watching her face intently for any sign of pain. Her eyes were closed, and she was biting her lip, but seemed to be in no great discomfort. He slid in a couple more inches, enjoying the warm pressure of her as she engulfed him. It was only when he was buried in her to the root that she moaned softly. He held very still. 

"Am I hurting you?" he murmured, kissing her throat. 

"No," she sighed. "No, I just feel -- I don't know -- full. It feels good." She arched her back, moving luxuriantly against him. 

"You feels good, too, Hermione," he told her. 

He moved inside her, pulling out a fraction, and then pushing back in. He went slowly at first, but as she began to meet his thrusts with her own, he began to increase his speed to match his rising need. He had not been sure that he would be able to finish like this, but he found the wet heat of her overwhelmed him after having only his own hands for relief these past two years. 

Sooner than he had thought, his forehead was pressed against hers, his hips jerking as he poured himself into her. 

" _Sirius!_ " he sobbed, eyes shut tight. 

He collapsed against her body, trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps. Slowly, tentatively, her arms came around him, and she held him to her until the shaking had passed. 

Rolling away from her at last, he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what he had just done. After a moment, he felt her hand on his. 

"Remus, are you all right?" she asked in a small voice. 

He nodded, not looking at her. "You?" 

"I'm fine," she said. Then after a moment, "Thank you, Remus." 

He looked at her then, giving her a weak smile. "It was -- my pleasure," he said ironically. 

"Well, I hope you enjoyed it a little bit, at least. Did I do all right?" 

His smile warmed at her obvious insecurity. "You did fine," he assured her. "If you can be for Ron the way you were for me tonight, I'm sure he'll be a very happy man. Even if it takes you some time to get there, I wouldn't worry too much about it. You'll have plenty of time to figure things out." 

"If we live," she said, an edge of bitterness to her voice. 

"If you live," he told her, "things will be very different after tomorrow. You may see your friends fall around you. You may know grief as you've never known it before. But once you've come through it, you will be amazed at how much it forces you to appreciate what you have. And I think you and Ron could have something wonderful if you'll just give him a chance to prove himself." 

She looked at him sadly. "What about you?" 

"Me?" he said, surprised. "I had something wonderful. I know what it's like. And I'll have it forever. No one can take Sirius away from me now, and the joy we had was worth the pain. All of it." 

She laid her head on his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her. 

"Remus?" she whispered a short time later. 

"Hmmm?" 

"Sirius was a very lucky man." 

"Thank you," he said, touched. "I think maybe Ron is too."


	5. Alive

They moved with a grace neither had suspected the other possessed. Truth be told, neither of them had ever given the other much thought before now. They were too different; male and female, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, blood-conscious and open-minded, but here and now they had at last found some common ground. 

They circled one another, blades ringing together then sweeping apart again. Her movements made him think of a dancer. She was effortless -- instinctive -- and he found himself envying her. His own muscles ached from their long hours of practice, but if she felt any pain, she hid it well. Her face wore only its usual expression of detached serenity. She might have been dancing with her own shadow. 

She had been a quick study, he had to admit. A natural with the blade. He had been working with her for only a few months, and yet every time, it took him longer to disarm her. She said she had made the sword herself, and if that was so, then she had an eye for beauty as well. The slender blade was long and straight, and the basket hilt, as finely-wrought as the wing of a bird, curved to protect her small hand. 

At last, Ernie Macmillan put up his sword. "I yield, Milady," he said with a half-smile, wiping his face on his sleeve. "I perish for thirst. We've been at this for ages; what say we pause for refreshment?" 

She lowered her blade as he turned to a table that had not been there a moment before, and poured them something cold and fruity-smelling from a newly-appeared decanter into two silver goblets. He passed one to her, something weighing on his mind. 

"Luna," he said. "I've been meaning to apologise to you, and this may be the last chance I get. I'm sorry I called you a weirdo when I was in fifth year. I didn't know you then." 

"It's all right, Ernest." Luna Lovegood gave him a bright smile. "A lot of people have called me worse things." 

He shook his head. "No, it's not all right. It was rude and it was thoughtless. And I was wrong." His brown eyes met her pale blue ones. "You're not weird, Luna. You're -- _free_. You don't care what people think. I envy you that." 

She gave him an odd little bow. "Thank you, Ernest." 

He took a long swallow of sweet, chilled wine to hide his momentary embarrassment, then said, "Should we call it a night? It must be very late." 

The Room of Requirement had given them no windows and no clocks by which to judge, but then he supposed he did not really want to know the time. All they had wanted was a place for their final practice session. The room had provided a large, open space, torchlit and with a stone floor. There were a few pillars to duck behind and weave around, but beyond that, the floor was as bare as the walls. 

"No," she replied, lowering her own empty goblet. "I don't think I could sleep yet. Tomorrow is going to be very exciting, don't you think?" 

"Exciting?" he said, startled. "I -- er -- suppose that's one way of putting it. We'll be facing You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters and Merlin knows what else without our wands. Sounds ruddy terrifying to me." 

Luna fixed him with her misty gaze. "I trust Harry," she said simply. "And he trusts those twins." 

"Well, obviously -- " he began. "But those twins, you know. One of them is _dead_ , and the other one thinks he's got his brother living inside his head with him. That just sounds mad. I mean to say, are we seriously planning to put our lives in the hands of a madman?" 

She smiled at that. "Some of us aren't nearly as mad as you might think, Ernest. You don't know everything there is to know. I think it sounds like quite a good plan." 

She set down her goblet, which vanished the moment it touched the table, and raised her blade once more. " _En garde_." 

He did his best to keep up, but the ache in his muscles seemed to have sunk into his bones, and he could feel his reactions growing slower by the minute. Her movements mesmerised him, though, and he found he did not want to stop, because then she would stop as well. She was not only beautiful to watch; it seemed to him that her dancing kept the uncertainty of tomorrow at bay. 

He realised that she was watching him, too. In fact, her eyes were fixed on his, as if she was no longer aware of the movements of her body at all, and he saw in them a look of determination -- of focus -- which he had never seen there before. 

Neither of them noticed the lush blue carpet that spread across the floor like moss, even as they trod upon it. Tapestries unfurled across the walls, and a window opened in the stone to let in the moonlight and the warm May breeze. The torches in their wall sconces narrowed into candles, and a bouquet of lilacs bloomed into existence on the table, which had returned along with the wine. 

All he saw were her eyes, pale and intent, but later, he swore that it was the scent of lilacs that had disarmed him. The blade flew from his hand and he took a step back as she moved forward, pressing her advantage. The backs of his knees came up hard against something, and they were falling. 

The bed had sprung up out of nowhere, tripping him and catching him all at once. He landed on the rich blue coverlet with her on top of him, her hair falling around his face. She was disconcertingly close. He could feel the heat of exercise radiating from her body where it pressed against his, see the curve of her bottom lip, smell the scent of her hair. She was still watching him. 

"Er -- maybe the room thinks it's time we got some sleep?" 

"Do you think so, Ernest?" she said, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. 

"Well," he babbled, "it must have thought we were tired, mustn't it? I mean, there's a bed." 

"There is," she acknowledged. "Good night, Ernest." 

"Er -- good night, Luna." 

But neither of them moved. Everything seemed so still and quiet that Ernie was no longer certain that his heart was still beating or that air still moved through his lungs. The only thing he knew was that her eyes were beautiful after all, and that he must do _something_ before his brain realised that his body had stopped, and decided that he was dead. 

"I'm not dead," he said fiercely. "Not yet." 

His fingers curved around the back of her neck, tangling in her hair as he pulled her down for a kiss. 

"I'm sorry," he said as his upbringing reasserting itself. "I should have asked. Kissing you like that, and on a bed! It's unseemly and disrespectful and --" And the dreamy smile on her lips made him want to do it all over again. 

"I don't mind," she told him. "It was nice. I like you, Ernest. Do you want to go to bed?" 

He sat up, scandalised, setting her gently away from him. "I would never presume -- Not without a proposal of marriage --" 

_Marriage?_ Why in Merlin's name was he talking about marriage? Until an hour ago, he had not even known that he loved -- _No!_ He should not be thinking that yet, either. 

She fell back on the bed, laughing, and he was reminded of the silvery sound of their blades ringing together. 

"I didn't mean like that," she said. I just meant --" She inclined her head gracefully toward the pillows. "Unless you want to go back to Hufflepuff?" 

He looked at her for a long moment. The last thing he wanted tonight was to be out of her presence. 

"No," he said at last. "You'll stay with me, then?" 

"I'd like that very much, Ernest." 

She held out her hand to him, and he took it. Together, they made their way on hands and knees to the pillows at the other end of the huge bed, and lay down side by side, their heads close together, their fingers interlaced. Ernie thought he might ask the room to provide them with a shower and a change of clothes, but he found that he did not wish to be apart from her even that long. The connection they shared was too new -- too delicate and precious -- and he feared that any step away taken too soon might sever it. 

For a long time, neither of them said anything; they merely lay together, touching and breathing and peacefully existing. He realised how much he liked that about her. His upbringing had taught him self-consciousness, but with her, he could just _be_ , secure in the knowledge that she had no expectations of him. 

"I don't want you to think," he said at last, words awkward in his mouth, "that this happened just because of what we're going to do tomorrow. I think -- I'd really like to know you better, Luna." 

He thought he could hear her smiling. "I'd like that, too," she said softly. 

He squeezed her hand in his. "I thought maybe you and Ron --" 

Luna giggled. "Really? I did used to fancy him a bit, mostly because he's Ginny's brother and she was always so nice to me. But no, Ronald's with Hermione." 

He chuckled. "I had noticed something of the kind. I just -- wasn't sure how you felt about it." 

She rolled over on her belly to face him. The smile was no longer on her lips, but he still saw it in her eyes. The fingers of her free hand strayed to touch his hair. 

"Most people think it's me and Neville," she told him. "But you know, I think he's a little scared of me. Anyway, I always thought --" 

"Me and Hannah?" He grinned. "Everyone thinks that. We're really just good friends." 

She giggled again. "I was going to say I always thought you were with Justin." 

He blushed crimson. His reply was a long time coming, but something about her compelled him to honesty. He knew she would not judge him. 

"I think maybe Justin thought so, too, sometimes," he reluctantly admitted. "But it was just curiosity, you know? Youthful high spirits. Anyway, it was all over a long time ago." 

"So you're available?" 

He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close for another kiss. 

"Not anymore," he sighed contentedly. 

The room would conjure an alarm clock when it was time for them to wake.


	6. Fallen

"Why are you here, Maddy?" he asked softly, not wanting to wake her if she slept. 

He stroked the soft waves of dark hair that spilled across his pillow, feeling, for the moment, like the luckiest bastard in the world. For so long, he had lived with nothing but his own fear and self-loathing, but somehow, without ever speaking a tender word, she made him feel that, to her at least, he was valuable. 

She was one of the few who had managed to avoid sentence in Azkaban following the Dark Lord's fall from power seventeen years before, and at thirty-eight, her beauty still bloomed. So many of the others had become ravaged shells of their former selves from the torment of incarceration. As for himself, he had only to look in the mirror to know that he was no woman's ideal lover. It was one of the reasons they made love in the darkness; so that she might imagine he was someone else, if she wished. 

Just when he was sure she was sleeping after all, she turned to face him, fair skin glowing in the moonlight. "I don't know." 

"I've never understood it," he confessed. "Why you would want to be with someone like me." 

The expression on her face was serious. Even as a girl, her smiles had been rare. "You never acted like you wanted to own me or control me. Like you were better than me. You were always -- kind." 

"I was grateful," he replied. "I still am. Now more than ever. I never expected you'd come back to me after I was -- gone for so long." 

"I thought you were dead, Peter." 

_Peter._ She was the only one who ever called him that anymore. The others all followed the Dark Lord's lead, mocking him, throwing his schoolboy nickname back in his face, a constant reminder of the friends he had betrayed. 

"Why are you here?" she asked him. 

He laughed softly in the darkness. "You know why I'm here, Maddy. How often do you think a beautiful woman consents to come to bed with someone like me?" 

Her expression did not change. "You know that's not what I meant. I mean, why are you with us? With the Dark Lord? I know you, Peter. You've never cared about the pure-blood cause or the Dark Lord's quest for immortality. You're too smart to think you're going to earn power and glory here. So why?" 

His laughter turned bitter in his throat. "Where else could I go? Any of my friends who are left would happily see me dead. The Dementor's Kiss is the best I can hope for from that lot. I'm a coward, Maddy, and well you know it." 

"Then I guess it's a good thing I'm not looking for a hero." Even when she joked, she did not crack a smile. 

"I guess it is." His own smile was sheepish. He bent to kiss her, but she turned her face away. 

"You never meant to betray them, did you?" she said to the wall. "That James Potter and his wife?" 

"What are you going to do?" he asked. "Report me to the Dark Lord? He knows what I did, and probably why I did it. He knows well enough that fear is what keeps some of us loyal." 

She turned back to him then. "Why would I turn you in," she asked, "when you're the only one of them I can stand to fuck?" 

He should have been used to it by now, but somehow vulgarity coming from that beautiful mouth always disconcerted him, and he looked away from her. 

"It just sort of happened," he admitted. "I thought -- well, looking back, it was a pretty stupid thing to think. All I really wanted was to be safe, and I thought James might have had a chance of -- making life safe again." 

"You really thought your friend could defeat the Dark Lord?" she asked incredulously. 

"I thought he could do anything," he said softly. 

"I guess you were wrong." There was a snide coldness to her tone that he hated. Sometimes he wished he could discomfit her as much as she did him. 

"Why are you here, then?" he asked, trying and failing to match the chill in her voice. "What's the Dark Lord got that you want badly enough to risk Azkaban and spend time in the company of the Lestranges and the Malfoys and the rest of them? You hate them." 

She reached out a slender, pale hand and drew a fingernail down his chest, leaving a long, red welt in its wake. 

"Maybe I just like to hurt people. Did you ever think of that, Peter-my-love?" 

He shuddered, and it was only partly in response to her touch. He knew she spoke truly. Madeleine Yaxley had never been a nice girl. Peter himself had witnessed her attempt to kill a fellow Hogwarts student in their fifth year. 

"That can't be all of it," he said doggedly. "It's hardly a good reason to throw in with this lot." 

She shrugged. "I guess it's the pure-blood thing. A world where I get to be one of the elite sounds like a worthwhile cause to me." 

"I don't buy it," he said, shaking his head. 

"Why not?" 

He looked at her. "All the good pure-blood women I know have made themselves good pure-blood marriages, and set about producing the next generation of the 'elite', as you call them." 

It seemed that he had managed to make her uncomfortable after all. She turned away from him again. For long moments, she did not speak. He had nearly given up and tried to go to sleep himself when her voice broke the silence between them. 

"You remember how I was?" she asked, an odd, hollow tone in her voice. "When we were in school?" 

He did. Vividly. She had been a pretty thing even then, and she had known it. Any boy at Hogwarts had been fair game, and there had been a lot of girls who had hated her for it. After their own first encounter, Peter had watched, bewildered, as she worked her way through what seemed like half of the male population of the school. 

"You were -- flirtatious," he said uncomfortably. 

"I was a slut. Mother found out, of course. It -- broke her heart, I guess. She said I'd dishonoured our good name and polluted my blood with Muggles and blood-traitors. We fought -- and then I left. She had wanted so badly for me to make one of those good pure-blood marriages." 

There was a sad note under the harshness of her tone, but Peter was afraid to touch her for fear that she would think she had said too much and close herself off from him again. 

"Why didn't you?" he asked instead, as if he were merely curious. "Most girls do. Didn't you want --?" 

"Of course I did!" she burst out, sitting up and turning to glare at him. "I wanted it all. But bloody Rabastan Lestrange went and spoiled it for me, didn't he?" 

"Did he?" 

She ignored the question. 

"And by the time Mum found out, I knew --" 

"Knew what?" 

"Open your eyes, Peter," she said in disgust. "In three years, I was with nearly half the boys at Hogwarts, and I never once used any kind of protective potion. If I could have children, I would have had one by the time we left school. But I can't. What good is a pure-blood woman if she can't bear a pure-blood child?" 

"I wouldn't have cared about that," he said quietly. 

She snorted at that. " _I_ cared about it. So here I am, doing what I can for the pure-blood cause in the only way I know how. And now --" she sighed. "There are some things you can't come back from. I've done things -- I only escaped Azkaban because I did a deal with the Ministry." She smirked. "I'm the one who gave evidence against the Lestranges. I told them everything they wanted to know about that family, and happy to do it. Better them than me." 

"Do you want to get married?" Peter asked. 

The corner of her mouth twitched at that, and he thought she almost smiled. "That's what you come away from this with? I tell you all that, and you ask if I want to get _married_? Why?" 

_Because then we could be together. Because then I could have you all to myself. Because you're the only one in the world who doesn't look on me with loathing and contempt. Because I love you, Maddy. Because I always have._ But he could not say any of those things. She had always scorned displays of sentiment. 

He shrugged as if it were of no consequence to him. "I just thought I'd let you know the offer was on the table," he said. "If you want it." 

She gave him a long, measured look. "I'll think about it," she said at last. 

So startled was he that she would even consider his proposal that he did not notice the owl until it pecked sharply on the window glass. He jumped, then rose to let the bird into the room. A scroll of parchment was tied to its leg. He removed this, unrolled it, read it once silently, and then read it aloud to the dark-haired beauty in his bed. 

" _We have one of them. Report to headquarters._ " 

Madeleine smiled.


	7. Divided

Though the hour was late, lights burned in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Long, shadowy shapes could occasionally be seen moving past the windows with apparent purpose, but no sound drifted into the dark, sleeping grounds. 

Inside the house was another matter. The barbed words of a man, voice raised in anger, and a woman, voice desperate and pleading, seemed to lash through every corner of the house. Their son would have found sleep impossible, but their son was not at home. That was why they were arguing. 

"Would I rather be stuck in Azkaban, plagued by Dementors day and night? Is that what you're asking me, woman?" the man with the pale, pointed face and white-blond hair shouted. "Of course not! I am of more use here, regardless of my past errors, and the Dark Lord knows it. He saw fit to forgive me -- to release me into his service once more. Why should I not be grateful?" 

His wife's eyes were bloodshot from weeping, but dry now, and her voice was a screech of disbelief. " _Grateful?!_ He took our child! Your _son_! How can you speak of gratitude when you know full well --?" 

"All I know," he cut her off, "is that if I serve well and faithfully, the boy need not fear for his life. As I have every intention of doing so, I do not see why you cannot let the matter rest." 

"You don't see _anything_!" Narcissa shrieked, stepping forward as if she meant to strike him, but not quite near enough to do so. "You watched what that animal did to him like it was _nothing_ , but I saw. How can you stand by and allow them to treat your own flesh and blood -- your _heir_ \-- in that vile fashion?" 

Lucius shrugged as if it were no matter to him. "It was the Dark Lord's price for my error." 

"His _price_? Our son's honour pays for an error _he_ made!" 

Two strides brought him near enough, and he struck her hard across the face. She stepped back, shocked, and sank into one of the green velvet chairs, hand to her bleeding mouth. 

"How _dare_ you?" he hissed at her, gray eyes cold. "How dare you speak of the Dark Lord in such a way? His plan was perfect. His servants botched it, and I was responsible for the mission. It is only just that I am the one who should be punished." 

Her lips were red with blood in her pale face, but she met his eyes, unflinching. "Then _you_ can go and take your punishment from that animal, and send your son home where he belongs." 

Lucius turned away and strode to an end table to pour himself a drink. "Why should I?" he said callously. "The boy is damaged goods now. A man can always get more sons." 

"You know we can't," she said quietly. 

He knew as well as she did that the danger of bearing a Squib was exponential in witches over forty years of age, and for a woman who had already borne one such child, there was little chance that their next would be anything else. 

"We dare not. Not after --" 

"I know." His gaze was coldly appraising. "You gave me a Squib once already. I should have killed you then along with it, and found myself a proper wife." 

Ice water poured through her veins. "You wouldn't," she whispered. "You wouldn't dare. Surely the life-bond prevents --" 

"Oh, I need not do it myself," he said with a smile like a blade. "Now that I am back in the Dark Lord's favour, I'm sure he would be only too happy to arrange a little 'accident' on my behalf. Then I would be free to get myself decent wife and more sons. There are plenty of young pure-blood women who might find me a suitable match, and new heirs are easy and pleasant to make. Perhaps the Dark Lord will reward my loyal service with the Parkinson girl." 

Narcissa grasped at a single coherent thought amid the chaotic tumble of her reeling mind. "But -- Pansy is promised to Draco! How can you even think --?" 

"That is the thought which troubles you most in this?" Lucius laughed, sipping at his brandy. "I threaten to kill you and take another wife, and your concern is for the boy's right to a warm place to put his cock? Typical female weakness! Use your head, woman. She cannot very well wed your son now, can she? His blood has been compromised. No woman in her right mind would touch him." 

"Do you mean to have us killed then?" she asked, fingers edging imperceptibly toward her wand pocket. 

She did not know what would happen if she tried to kill the man with whom she had been life-bonded. If she could just stun him, maybe she could run, but then how could she rescue her son from his imprisonment? If she ran, Draco was as good as dead. Perhaps the Imperius Curse would be best. 

She thanked god that she and her sisters had practiced Occlumency together as girls, and that her husband could not read her thoughts. He was gazing at her as if he were attempting to do so now. 

"No," he said at last. "You are safe. For tonight, at least. There would be a scandal, I suppose, and the life-bond might prevent it, in any case. You'll stay for the boy's sake, no doubt. If anything were to happen to me, the Dark Lord would have no further use for him. Given his treatment of the boy thus far, I doubt he would be granted an easy death. No. Go to bed, woman. I am weary of the sound of your voice." 

He turned away from her to pour himself another drink, and for a split second, she stared at his exposed neck, imagining what his blood would feel like pouring hot over her hands. She could do it. It would be easy. And if she died of it, too -- 

A sharp rap on the window made her jump, and she hurried to let the owl in, unconsciously wiping her hands on her robes. The message was for her husband. She dropped it, unread, next to the brandy decanter, and turned to go to her bed, as he had commanded. 

Her foot had barely touched the bottom step when he said, "Get your cloak. We're wanted at headquarters."


	8. Trapped

"We caught him wandering not far from the house, My Lord," one of the hooded men said derisively. "Yelling his head off, he was, and didn't even have his wand out. A child could have taken him." 

His cheeks flamed at this mockery of his own stupidity, but he kept his head up, his back straight, and looked them each in the eye in turn. If he lived, he wanted to remember who had been there. The Lestranges, the Malfoys, a big blond man, a man he recognised from the Department of Mysteries as Antonin Dolohov, Wormtail, a dark-haired woman, the werewolf Fenrir Greyback -- 

"He is a member of the Order of the Phoenix?" asked the tall, pale man, red eyes burning. "You are certain of this?" 

"Better than that, My Lord," the hooded man said smugly. "This one is friends with Potter. And we all know what Potter does when his friends are in danger." 

Laughter rang out around the circle of Death Eaters, echoing off the cracked plaster of the old walls. 

"A friend of Harry Potter," mused Voldemort. "You have done very well indeed, Travers. I shall not forget it. Potter has proved rash under such circumstances before. I think we shall lay a trap for our young friend. But until Potter comes to us, this one shall be our honoured guest." 

He stood as tall as he could, and looked straight into the pitiless red eyes. He was not afraid for himself or for Harry. Harry had faced Voldemort before, and won. He would do it again. 

"You can do what you like with me," Ron Weasley said as bravely as he could manage. "I don't care. Just let Hermione go." 

More laughter echoed around the room, but Voldemort raised his wand and pointed it at Ron's chest. 

"You will speak only to answer our questions, boy. _Crucio_!" 

Pain screamed through his bones, twisting and grinding them together so that they would surely shatter. It ended as abruptly as it had begun, and he found himself lying with his face pressed to the flagstone floor. His body ached atrociously and their laughter echoed inside his skull. 

He tried with all his might to listen to what his captors were saying, knowing that it might well be important, but the words came to him muddled and indistinct. He wondered muzzily how hard his head had struck the floor. He could not distinguish between the residual ache left by the curse and any physical trauma he might have suffered. 

"-- Greyback in a few days," he managed to catch. "Soften him up a bit." 

There was more laughter, and then hands seized him roughly by the shoulders, forcing him to his feet. He stumbled along, unable to offer much resistance, as they half-dragged, half-carried him down a narrow corridor, dimly lit by old gas lamps, through a doorway and down a flight of steps into dark and chilly space that smelled of mildew and something less pleasant which he could not identify in his befuddled state. There was no light down here but the wand of one of his captors, which threw confusing shadows on the stone walls. 

A shove, and he was on the floor again, banging his knees painfully against the stone, and throwing out his arms only just in time to save himself another blow to the head. There was a clang of iron on iron and the grating sound of a key in an old lock. 

"There you go," laughed a rough voice through the bars. "You two lovebirds can keep one another company." 

Their footsteps retreated, and Ron was left in darkness. But not alone. 

"Hermione?" he whispered, blinking into the gloom, trying to force his eyes to adjust, which they did reluctantly. 

Ron's heart fell. The figure who huddled against the wall, forehead resting on knees drawn up to its chest, was male. He was also thin and ragged, light hair grayed by grime or age, Ron could not tell. Until he spoke. 

"Lost your girlfriend, have you, Weasley?" 

The head tilted back and a pale face seemed to glow in the darkness. Draco Malfoy. Ron's eyes had adjusted enough to see his reddened eyes and the white channels left by tears streaking the grime of his face. He reeked of weeks of incarceration and something else that Ron thought might be fear. He was so shocked by the apparition that, for a moment, he forgot his schoolboy loathing, ignoring the barb and answering the question. 

"I woke up and she wasn't there. Have you seen her? Did they bring her here?" 

Draco chuckled. "Finally managed to pry Granger's knees apart, did you? Well done." 

Ron shot him a dirty look, and Malfoy grudgingly added, "If they've got her, they didn't bring her here." 

A sigh of relief escaped Ron's lips. "Thank god. I thought for sure they'd got her." 

The cell was small, no more than six feet by eight, and there was nowhere he could sit that was far enough away from the other boy to avoid his stink. He rested his back against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe through his mouth. 

"You may not have noticed, Weasley, but they've got _you_." There was the ghost of a smirk in Draco's voice. "You think your Mudblood girlfriend will be any happier when she finds out you're here?" 

"Shut up, Malfoy," he said without much heat. "I haven't got the energy to teach you a lesson just now." 

Draco only chuckled. 

Ron opened his eyes again and turned as something occurred to him. "What are you doing here, anyway? I thought your Mummy and Daddy were all chummy with You-Know-Who. They were upstairs just now." 

"Were they?" Something moved in the depths of Draco's eyes, as if he were about to ask more, but changed his mind. Instead, he gave a sharp bark of bitter laughter. "Oh, they are. Best mates. And just to show them how much they mean to him, the Dark Lord is keeping me safe down here." 

"He seems to have gone all out on the accommodations," Ron commented drily. 

"Indeed." Draco's tone matched his own. 

"Any idea why they stuck me in here with you?" 

Draco smirked. "Maybe because we're such good friends, and the Dark Lord didn't want us to be lonely." 

Ron snorted at that. 

After a moment of stillness, Draco said softly, "But it's probably because of Greyback." 

"Greyback?" Ron asked, puzzled. "You-Know-Who's pet werewolf?" 

Draco nodded, looking uncharacteristically grim. "They probably think I'll warn you what he's like, so you can be properly horrified and willing to do anything they ask by the time it's your turn." 

Ron looked in shock at the boy as gray and thin and ragged as Remus Lupin. "He bit you? You're a werewolf now?" 

"No, nothing like that." Draco stared straight ahead. He might have been talking to himself. "They don't let him in here on the full moon. He's got a cell down the hall, though, and I hear him. When they don't let him out to have his fun, that is." He shuddered involuntarily. 

"If he didn't bite you, how bad can it be?" asked Ron skeptically. 

His own eldest brother, Bill, had been savaged by an untransformed Greyback, and apart from some scarring and a liking for rare steak, had taken no ill effect. Draco did not look all that scarred. 

"Bad enough," Draco said quietly. "They brought me here when they released Father from Azkaban. That was the arrangement; my freedom for his, and his good behaviour and diligence for my safety. And just to show he meant it, the Dark Lord made Mother and Father watch the first time he let Greyback in with me." 

Ron's mouth dropped open in dawning horror. "He didn't --?" 

Draco's gray eyes were haunted, but a mirthless smile played across his lips. "Who would have guessed that my mother's tears would hurt worse than being buggered by a werewolf? And my father just stood there looking about as disgusted as you do right now." 

"Merlin's _arse_!" Ron grimaced, revolted. "That's horrible. I wouldn't wish that on --" 

"Your worst enemy? Thanks, Weasley. I appreciate the sentiment." 

"You're not my worst enemy," Ron said after a moment. "I hated you, right enough, but that was kids stuff. This is war. You're nowhere near the worst thing out there." 

Draco cast him a pitying look. "You'll know that for certain soon enough. I may even feel sorry for you when your turn comes." 

Ron balled up his fists in his robes until his knuckles turned white. "That's not going to happen," he said, voice carrying as much conviction as he could muster. "The Order -- Harry -- my brothers -- Hermione -- they'll come and find me. They'll get me out. I know it." 

"If you say so," Draco said with a shrug. He slid down the wall and curled himself up on the floor, pulling his tattered robes tightly around him. "I'm going to get some sleep, myself. Wake me when your rescue party arrives."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is continued in [_The Power of Two_ , Chapter 12](http://archiveofourown.org/works/969147/chapters/1922466).


End file.
